Tag Archives: True story

My life is a movie (or a book) – post 2

To show you I wasn’t kidding on my last post here is another one. You can see this “curse” follows me since I was really young.
True story!
Worst of all, when I can home I was already frustrated and I showed the “dog” to my mum. She was like “Oh… That isn’t a dog?!”. Only my dad understood what it was. Thankfully my drawing skills have improved a little.

My life is a movie (or a book) – post 1

I have plenty of things to post with the same title because funny/weird/unusual things happen to me even when I try to avoid it. I guess it happens to everyone but I’m one of those people who attracts these kind of things more than the usual.
Even with the hard work nurses and nurses’ assistants have to deal with, there are moments when we want to laugh like we are crazy but we have to be really professional. I think my poker face is getting improved.
Two years ago I was doing my internship as a nursing student on a Pediatric Ward. Nurses in Pediatric usually think the most difficult thing is not dealing with the children but with the parents, since they can be very critical. I think it’s normal you worry about your kid. That’s not the point of this post. I just want to write down a funny situation of that internship. I don’t know if you will find it as funny as I do but I still want to laugh when I remember it. If you are a nurse or a nurse assistant you will get it 😉
Mum (acting all crazy and shouting at me): Hey, nurse, I wanted to ask you to turn off the air conditioner. I went for a coffee and when I came back my son was freezing.
Me: Oh, we’re sorry. It’s summer and it’s hot but if you prefer we turn off the air conditioner on this bedroom.
I looked at the kid in his bed, with no covers, only wearing the pajama and a question popped out inside my head.
Me: Did he have his blanket covering him?
Mum: No. I left him without the blanket or the bed sheets because I didn’t want him to be too hot.
Good, mum… Good.

“Not a memoir but memories”

First of all, and for those who don’t know this yet, I’m Portuguese so I’m preemptively apologizing for any mistakes you may find in my writing. Many people say my English is very good but I believe I still have a lot to learn. I’m trying to keep this blog in English so I can reach as many people as I can but obviously my English isn’t perfect.
This morning I was talking to my boyfriend about random subjects when he asked me to write down the story of my father, which I did with no hesitation. It wasn’t the first time I wrote about him, I was only going to write about a part of his story that was still unwritten. I have no problems talking about it but writing makes me feel much more introspective, to truly feel.
This is part of the story of my father, the part I wrote about this morning:
On my 3rd grade in school I saw my father going away to a different country because for a long time he couldn’t find a job in Portugal. We would come visit me and my mum on Christmas or summer. I went to visit him once and I didn’t want to come back there because I didn’t like the place where he was living. He was a journalist and a writer but he was also studying to be a teacher. One year he decided not to come during summer and only on Christmas. There was sad morning that summer when even the bright day outside wasn’t enough to light up my day. I woke up with my mum crying on the phone. I got up and went to see what was happening. “Daddy is dead” she said to me with her face washed in tears. I was so young. At first I couldn’t believe it. I sat down on my cough in the living room trying to digest that information. “I will never see my daddy again”, that was all I could think about. There I stood while my mum kept crying on the phone. I stood there in silence. I cried my heart out for a while and then it stopped. It was like the world stopped as well. When I stopped crying I decided I had to be strong. My father was shot in a foreign country and apart of the complicated story around it, nothing was done. The guys were found and nothing was done, not even a visit to court. I spoke about this in Philosophy classes, crying. I spoke about this with some friends, crying. I wrote about it, crying. When I was with my family I didn’t remember crying because I felt I had to be stronger than all of them. I had a hard time dealing with it but I grew stronger. Yes, I still cry sometimes but I don’t feel it’s a bad. I cry because I miss him. I received a letter from a friend of his a few years after saying how much he loved me. He used to speak about me all the time. He was proud of me. I was the most important thing in his life.
While I was writing this morning I suddenly started crying. It wasn’t a few tears running down my face. I don’t remember crying like that for a long, long time. I couldn’t speak, I almost couldn’t breath and it wouldn’t stop. To be honest I don’t think I wanted it to stop. I’m not ashamed to cry and in that moment I just wanted to get rid of my tears. Crying can free us from what we carry inside ourselves every day. When I was crying I didn’t want to stop. I wanted to cry all I needed to.
When I finally find strength to say something all I could say was “I miss him so much” over and over again. Now that I think about it, that is a statement I didn’t say for a long time as well. I say that on my head lots of times but it was so good to say it out loud again.
To me writing is cathartic. A way of meditation. A method I use since I was very young to get rid of all my ghosts as well as to praise all the moments of pure happiness. What happened this morning was positive.

I wrote poems and a short story about my father some time ago and one of my biggest dreams is to get these published, to honor him. I want to be a writer since I was little and now I want it even more; the reason for that is my father. He taught me so much about life even when I couldn’t understand the meaning of what he was saying (but now I do). He gave me the love for reading and writing. He is the main reason for this dream of mine.
I don’t mind talking about my dad. I don’t mind writing about him. I don’t mind crying for him. I miss him everyday in my life and I wish I had had more time with him. Life goes on. Like I said lots of times before this is a scar on my soul that will never heal. It made me who I am today. I just hope deeply in my heart that he is proud of who I am, what I achieved and my choices. I love him and even now I can find a way of loving him a little bit more every day.

The taxi driver who likes radical sports

Some day last week after a hard day of work I took a taxi home because it was raining a lot and I was so tired I just wanted to get home as quickly as possible.
The taxi driver was a man about 35 to 40 years old who really enjoyed having a conversation. For me that’s wonderful.
The funny part started when he asked me what I do for a living and I said I’m a nurse working in a orthopedics and trauma unit. As soon as I finished my sentence I saw a big smile growing on his face. “Broken bones, then?” he asked, and even before I could answer he started telling me about his adventures with motorbikes which included many, many accidents with many different broken bones. 
He seemed so excited and happy about sharing all of these experiences that all I could do was smile back and say a short sentence now and then to show him I was listening.
It was nice but after 16 hours of broken bones or post-surgery recovery of broken bones I kind of wanted a different subject on my mind.

The hardest words

“Let’s stop now, we did everything we could”… Those were the hardest words I heard today. 
It was 9 a.m. I was finishing my notes after a long nightshirt and I heard one of the nurses’ assistants calling my name. “Come fast!” she said and I had this feeling something was really wrong. It wasn’t someone who fell, it wasn’t someone in pain… something worst.
As soon as I got to the bedroom my heart got small and tight. “Bring the defibrillator and call my colleagues” I heard myself saying, but actually I don’t believe I was really thinking. I was focused on what I was seeing. I called the name and tried to stimulate the person like we learn, but there was no answer or other type of reaction from. The skin was colder than I wished. An adrenaline rush started to grow on my veins, on my spine, on every single cell of my body.
The doctors came in as well. The bedroom suddenly seemed too small. People kicked the bin for several times before one of the nurses’ assistant took it to somewhere further. Everyone in that bedroom was synchronized, in a chain of actions that weren’t premeditated. People simply did the things they needed to do, every single one something different, doing something that was necessary. So many people in there, but all of them were needed, nobody even thought about going away.
More than twenty minutes. For more than twenty minutes everyone did the best they could. We switched tasks from time to time but always coordinated. No one of us wanted to give up. We gave our heart and all strength of mind and knowledge to be there, body and soul. No reaction at all, but we didn’t want to give up. The body stood still; not even a single reaction, slight movement or a heartbeat.
After that time one of the doctors says “let’s stop now, we did everything we could”. We all knew it was true but it still took us a few seconds to stop doing what we were doing. 
“Let’s stop now, we did everything we could”. Those are the hardest words someone in the health field can hear. Those were the last words I heard at the end of my shift. Those were the hardest words I heard today.